For Adults Only
by Etaleah
Summary: John thinks it's fine to spank their daughter. Sherlock couldn't disagree more.


Sherlock never thought he could love anyone as much as he loved John Watson, but on January 14th, 2016, he was proven wrong. Mary had been reluctant to let even the nurses hold Rosie, but when Sherlock finally had her in his arms, he had gone weak in the knees and unable to speak. She was the tiniest creature he'd ever touched and her adoring gaze up at him was nearly identical to John's. What he felt for John was overwhelming, but at least that had developed gradually over time, whereas now the feelings of six years all slammed into him at once, and the person they centered around was far more helpless.

He hid it, of course. With Mary as dangerous as she was, he didn't dare let her know how important Rosie was to him; it was bad enough she knew about his love for John. Instead, he limited his affection to when the new parents were asleep—actually, that was generous, it was more like they'd passed out on the couch—and he would hug her to his chest at the window or hold her in his lap with a book, kissing her soft hair and cheek. He would whisper all the things to her that he couldn't say to John, and even after she'd gone to sleep, he could watch her for hours. She was endlessly fascinating and only got more so as she grew into a toddler.

When their lives were finally free of Mary, and he had worked everything out with John, Sherlock wasted no time in adopting Rosie. He stayed up all night doing endless research on the best preschool, the best food, the best parenting strategies, the best everything, until John reassured him that it's okay, you're doing fine, you git, now close that computer and come back to bed. Sherlock had never been happier.

Rosie, for her part, was a happy girl, but a rambunctious one. For the third time that week, she bounced on their bed at dawn. "Daddy, Sherla! Wake up!"

John groaned. "Jesus, who needs condoms when you have kids," he grumbled. Sherlock shushed him but smiled. Their sex life had certainly taken a hit when Rosie learned to walk and open doors. They hadn't even slept naked in weeks.

"Good morning," Sherlock crooned, meeting her with open arms. He couldn't help hugging her when he saw her wearing the pink footie pajamas with smiling bees he'd bought her. She giggled as he held her on his lap and tickled her. John smiled sleepily at them. Her laughter lit up a room, and Sherlock wanted more. He blew a raspberry on her cheek, and they winced at how loud she shrieked in her shrill, sky-high toddler voice.

"Nothing like waking up to my two favorite people in the world," Sherlock said, kissing her head.

John scoffed good-naturedly. "Yeah, but I wouldn't mind waking up on my own terms." He sat up now, raising an eyebrow at Rosie. "This is our room, all right? You need to ask before you come in, okay?"

 _Ugh. Boring._ It was nice to see Rosie so enthusiastic in the mornings and wanting to spend time with them. _No need to spoil it, John._ To hide his irritation, he said, "What would you like for breakfast?"

"Cereal!" Rosie scampered off his lap and bounced on the bed again. "Cereal, cereal!"

"All right, all right," John said. "I'll fix you a bowl." He slid out of bed and slipped on a robe—Sherlock had turned him into a robe person, and he loved it—before padding out of the room, tousling Rosie's hair along the way. Sherlock stretched, taking his time. He soon heard cereal hitting the bottom of a bowl, probably the rainbow kiddie one, Rosie's favorite.

He soon joined them and was just sitting down to his own breakfast when he noticed what Rosie was shoveling down fast. "John!" he turned to his love, who lowered his section of the papers. "I told you not to buy that kind. It's loaded with sugar, artificial dyes, and absolutely no nutritional value."

John sighed. "I know, Sherlock, but she was pitching a fit over it in the shops, and the whole grain stuff is expensive. Besides, she loves it," he said, pointing to Rosie munching at breakneck speed.

Sherlock frowned. How could John think of money when their daughter's health was at stake? He would have to say something to him about it later. For now, he settled for a whispered, "All the research shows breakfast really is the most important meal of the day and can impact a child's brain function and academic performance."

"Yeah, well she's not in school yet, so I think we can relax for now," John whispered back, then turned to Rosie. "All done? Here, let's take your bowl to the sink." He got up to help her do so, leaving Sherlock bristling.

A few clattering dishes later, Rosie asked, "Can I watch the morning cartoons?"

"Sure, I'll start your timer now." With a few beeps, the kitchen timer was set to one hour. At Sherlock's insistence, they allowed her no more than two hours of telly a day and no more than one hour at a time. Hell, if Sherlock had his way, she might not watch any at all, but he had lost that battle when Rosie had fallen in love with _Sesame Street_ , and John insisted that some telly did have educational value.

Rosie planted herself in front of the tube now, and Sherlock helped John with the dishes, trying to swallow down his aggravation at the cereal and, if he was honest, John's attitude in the bed that morning. Yes, it was their room, but he didn't want Rosie feeling like she couldn't come to them. Thankfully, he was distracted by a _ping_ on his phone indicating a new email. He opened it and grinned.

"Finally. A case that's a nine point two if not higher." John matched his grin, and they set up their laptops at the table and went over the details. They were so complicated that the two of them had barely scratched the surface before the timer sounded and Rosie whined.

"But my favorite show is still on!" she cried, running to Sherlock and jumping up and down with her hands on his knees. "Please can't I watch just a little more? _Please?_ "

"No, you've already had your hour," Sherlock said at the same time John said, "All right, a little more, so long as you keep the sound low while we work."

They all went quiet, realizing the awkwardness. Rosie knew, going by her looking back and forth between them, that her parents had given conflicting information, but it only took a second for her to choose to listen to the one who gave the answer she wanted. She rushed back to the telly and sat back down on the sofa as it played on. Sherlock started to get up, but John laid a hand on his arm.

"Just leave it, all right? We haven't had a case in a long time."

The aggravation grew. Sherlock was still glaring at John long after the latter had turned back to his laptop. Seemed he was determined to rot his daughter's brain as well as her teeth and her health. Sherlock knew they would have to have a talk about this, but he didn't want to scare Rosie by fighting in front of her, and he wanted to get to the case even more than John did. He continued working, but typed a little harder than usual and spoke in clipped tones to let John know he was not happy. A fact he certainly noticed, as he gave Sherlock several looks.

Once they had learned all they could and settled on a plan, they closed their laptops, not speaking. They had barely raised from their seats before Rosie bounded over and asked, "Can you show me how to make mac and cheese for lunch? The kind that looks like bunnies?"

"Rosie, I told you, you're not old enough to use the stove by yourself," John said. "But if you want, you can help me make it." He snuck a sharp glance at Sherlock. "We'll use the healthy, whole grain, organic kind."

Sherlock bristled again but refrained from saying anything. He watched John set about preparing the box mix, warning Rosie again not to touch the stove, it's very hot and could burn your little fingers off. He directed her through getting the ingredients out and measuring the milk and butter, boiling the water, and dropping in the pasta to stir. Well, he let her stir at first anyway. Once the water began bubbling, he took the spoon away and lifted her off the counter.

"It's too hot, love. I don't want you to get hurt. Stand back, okay?"

Rosie was starting to pucker, so Sherlock quickly intervened. "Here, let's get the strainer." He directed her to it and helped her set it in the sink, though the way she slammed it down said she didn't consider it a suitable substitute for stirring.

"Stop sulking," John snapped, giving the rapidly steaming pot one last stir. _Ping._ He set the spoon down next to it. "Let me answer this email, and then I'll drain it for you so you can stir some more." He stepped out of the kitchen and Sherlock had just given Rosie a pat on the shoulder when she rushed to the pot and jumped up to grab its handle.

"Rosie, no!" Sherlock said at the same time John turned around and yelled, "Stop!" Too late. She had wrapped her chubby fingers around the handle and pulled it down toward her, not realizing how heavy it was. It was only by an incredible stroke of luck that the scalding water splashed around her feet with only a few drops on her clothes. The little macaroni bunnies scattered on the floor. Rosie screamed.

"What did I say?" John shouted. He snatched the pot from her hand and set it down hard on an unused burner, turned off the stove, and grabbed a wailing Rosie. Sherlock followed them, not liking where this was going.

"I told you not to touch the stove. I _told you_ ," John said, and before Sherlock or Rosie knew what was happening, John had bent her over and struck her on the bum with his hand, causing screams of the highest pitch. "Don't ever do that again."

"John!" Sherlock went cold. Rosie was crying hysterically, and somehow Sherlock managed to get her upstairs into her room and tell her to stay there for now. She likely hadn't heard a word because she was too busy screeching with tears streaming down her red face, but nonetheless, Sherlock had another matter to attend to. He raced down the stairs to the kitchen, where John was cleaning up the mess.

"What the hell did you just do to our daughter?" he asked coldly.

"I gave her a good spanking to send a message so she won't put herself in danger again, that's what. She didn't listen to me when I told her nicely, so I did something she will listen to." He folded his arms. "You have a problem with that?"

Sherlock closed the distance between them. "Yes, of course, I have a problem with that. You just struck our toddler violently." John laughed, and Sherlock saw red. "You think that's funny?"

John rolled his eyes. "I gave her a pat on the bottom with my hand, and you're acting like I punched her in the face with an iron glove. I bet you anything she won't be going near the stove without permission again."

"That 'pat on the bottom' was hard enough to make her cry, and violence of any kind is not how you solve conflicts with family members. I could slap you, and it might make you stop doing whatever you did that upset me, but it wouldn't mean I handled the situation properly."

"That's not the same thing, and you know it. You're an adult. I can reason with you, most of the time. I can't reason with a bloody toddler."

"So she's not old enough to understand reason, but she is old enough to understand why you're hitting her?"

John closed his eyes. "Jesus, Sherlock."

"Answer the question! If a child understands what they've done wrong and why, then a 'spanking' isn't necessary, and if they don't understand, then they're not going to understand why they're being struck. It's confusing for them and terrifying."

John pointed to himself. "Yeah, well for all that it's 'confusing and terrifying,' I think you'll find there are plenty of people who were spanked as kids that turned out just fine."

"The scientific, peer-reviewed research of the last fifty years is very clear that—"

"Christ, you and your fucking research! I don't _care_ , Sherlock! I don't care what some high-and-mighty Ph.D. psychologist who has never raised a kid in their life says about parenting. Rosie is my goddamn kid, not theirs."

"She's _our_ kid, and it's our job to do what's best for her, not what's convenient for us."

"Oh, is that what you think I'm doing? You think I spanked her because it was easy?"

"Yes! You keep her out of our room, you buy her horrible food that's going to wreak havoc on her body, so you don't have to put up with her emotions, you use the telly as a babysitter, and you use corporal punishment rather than talking to her, all so you don't have to deal with her."

John threw his head back. "For God's sake, Sherlock, I'm not perfect. You want everything to be the best, but I can't be the best dad all the time, all right? Sometimes I just want a bloody break from being a dad. Yes, I bought her the cereal because she was screaming how much she wanted it at the top of her lungs and everyone was staring at us, and I'd already had a long-arse day. Yeah, I told her to go watch cartoons because she needed something to do and we needed to work, and I spanked her because I knew that would get the fucking message across. And may God forgive me for wanting some privacy in my own goddamn bedroom."

Before Rosie, hearing this tone from John would have had Sherlock backing down immediately, like a puppy with its tail between its legs. But now he had someone else he loved and needed to fight for, someone who couldn't fight for herself. Though it hurt to see John so angry, Sherlock stood firm.

"Don't you understand that this age is the most important?" Sherlock pressed. "How we treat her now could shape her for the rest of her life. And hitting a child her age—"

"I didn't. Hit. Her." John was nearly red-faced, and his tremor was back. "I _spanked_ her, there's a difference."

"The Oxford English dictionary defines hitting as—"

"I don't need the Oxford English dictionary to tell me what hitting is!" John had never yelled so loud. "I know exactly what hitting is because unlike your spoiled, posh, pampered arse, I've actually been hit. I got hit ten times as hard for doing shit that was only half as bad as what Rosie did." His eyes were flickering, he'd said more than he meant to. "I used my open hand and did it once. When I was her age, I was _actually_ hit with objects and closed fists, as many times as he felt like."

Tears slipped from Sherlock's eyes. "I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that. It shouldn't have happened to you."

"You're damn right." John hurriedly wiped his eyes "I swore I would never do that to my kid no matter how angry I was, and I _haven't_." He pointed to Sherlock. "Don't you dare try to imply that I'm an abusive parent when you have no _fucking_ idea what an abusive parent is like.

Sherlock swallowed hard, choosing his words with care as more tears escaped. "I never said you were abusive. I would never say that."

"You sure as shit were implying it."

Sherlock ached to throw his arms around John, but he knew in this mood, he would only be shoved away. "That wasn't my intent, John. I promise. You're a good father, you just made the wrong choice."

John shook his head and held up his hands. "Well, smart-arse, if you're so sure you know everything, then you can be the one who handles all the discipline stuff. I'm more than happy to let you be the bad guy from now on." He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and slammed the front door on his way out. Sherlock heaved a sigh.

Honestly, why wouldn't John just read the research? He was a man of science who believed in rationality, and yet he was stubbornly committed to an ineffective method beyond any reason. Surely if he saw the mountain of evidence that spanking did more harm than good, he would come around. But Sherlock didn't know how to convince him to do it without angering him even more.

Rosie was still screaming. Sherlock dried his eyes and hurried back upstairs to comfort her.

* * *

The alcohol on John's breath when he came in worried Sherlock sick until he saw John crumple an old grocery list left on the counter and throw it into the rubbish with precise aim. He couldn't be drunk if his aim was still that good. His demeanor seemed calmer too. Rosie was asleep. Maybe this was a good time for them to talk.

Sherlock observed him carefully. He wasn't angry anymore, per se. Troubled might be a better word. Maybe even scared. He was avoiding Sherlock's eyes, which said he was thinking about something he didn't want Sherlock to know about. _Something private?_

He hadn't been the only one thinking. After getting Rosie calmed down, Sherlock had considered ways to approach the conversation. Mrs. Hudson had taught him many times that "you catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar," as she put it. Telling John all the ways he was wrong may have been the wrong approach. That thought gave Sherlock an idea, and he held printouts of articles and studies in hopes of putting it to work.

"Are you all right?" he asked, as gently as he could. His heart hurt. He didn't want to fight with John, and the revelation that his father had hit him had haunted Sherlock all day. He had cried some himself at the thought of his love in pain from those who were supposed to care for him. He never would have been so harsh if he had known that was the case. John clearly thought violent parenting methods were normal.

"I've been better," John said, dropping into his chair across from Sherlock, still not looking at him. "Certainly had days where I didn't hate myself as much."

"There's no need for that," Sherlock said, coming over to squeeze into the chair next to him. "Like I said, you're not a bad parent. You made a mistake."

"I was emotional," John admitted. "But Christ, Sherlock, I was _scared_. What if she had suffered serious burns and had to be in hospital? And I don't understand why she couldn't just listen. If your kid doesn't listen, what else can you do?"

Sherlock kissed his cheek. "That's what I've been reading up on all day." He held up the papers. "Turns out there are lots of alternative methods to corporal punishment that have been proven to work well. And you're not the first parent who didn't think of them right away," he added quickly, lest John think he was judging him.

John took the papers. "Any you think would work on Rosie?"

"Tons. May have to be trial and error for a while since every child responds differently, but I'm sure we can figure something out." He couldn't resist squeezing John in a hug. "I'm sorry I haven't been the easiest teammate. I just love her so much. But I promise I love you equally."

He was relieved when John returned the hug. "I just can't stand the thought of being like him." His tremor was back again, and Sherlock massaged it. "I _can't_ , Sherlock. And if I ever get like that, I need you to stop me." He smiled weakly. "So I guess I should be glad you tried to earlier."

"You are not like him," Sherlock said firmly. "I promise."

John leaned into him. "Does she hate me?"

"No. I told her the only reason you got so upset was because you loved her and that everything would be better if she apologized to you tomorrow and promised not to touch the stove or anything on it again."

The tremor stopped. "Thank you." He kissed Sherlock with more passion than he had in weeks. "Is she asleep now?"

"Yes." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What do you have in mind?"

John stood up and pulled Sherlock with him. "We've been so busy being parents I think we've forgotten to make time for each other, and that's part of why we were so snippy all day." He grabbed Sherlock's bum playfully with a devilish grin. "And there's another naughty person in the house who needs to be spanked."

Sherlock laughed and held John's hand as they made their way to the bedroom.


End file.
